


Brienna

by EmmaFoxglove



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Children, Dad!Sandor, Future Fic, Gen, Post-Canon, Sandor's a bit of a hard ass but it comes from a place of love, Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23561899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaFoxglove/pseuds/EmmaFoxglove
Summary: Set some fifteen years after the events in A Feast for Crows. Sansa is Queen of the North, Sandor Clegane by her side. The narrative is set in the POV of one of their children, a Child of the Spring, growing up in a very different world than the one her parents had to endure. Through her eyes we get a glimpse of Sansa Stark's Winterfell.
Relationships: Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark (mentioned), Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 57





	Brienna

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little fic where not too much happens. Given the amount of drama both in the asoiaf universe and our own, I needed to write something a little lighter, a little more domestic. Also, naming my OTP's future babies is kind of my hobby and this fic spawned from that.

Brienna

The long white sheets cracked and flapped in the wind, reminding her of the cranes that flew above the winter marsh in a cloud of white feathers. Brienna raced between the long lines of snapping sheets, her boots splattering mud. She could hear him closing in. She ducked beneath another sheet, nearly knocking over the woman behind it. The startled laundress squeaked as Brienna careened into her. Brienna began to apologize but the footsteps behind her were coming closer and when she looked back she saw her pursuant's boots beneath the sheet. Her heart leaping into her throat, Brienna pushed past the poor laundress and ran down the next line of snowy linen sheets. Behind her, the laundress let out another startled squawk as a second person slammed into her. 

Brienna’s side was beginning to pinch and her skirt was heavy with splatters of mud and cold water. She pressed her hand against her side and kept running. Up ahead was Queen’s Keep. The eastern wall was only half built, the rough, uneven stone jutting out from the corner. As soon as she reached the base she dared to peek behind her. He was coming for her, his round, pink face poking out from behind the last white sheet, green-blue eyes arresting on her. Brienna squealed in half-real alarm and threw herself at the jutting stone blocks that made up the corner of the Keep, the stones protruding out against the bright air like broken giant’s teeth. Brienna hauled herself up the side of the building, hand over hand, her feet finding the familiar crevices and toe holds even in her boots. 

“Don’t!” cried her pursuer. “You aren’t supposed to climb!” His voice hitched higher at the end of the sentence in a babyish whine. 

Brienna looked down at him. He stared at her, his round eyes perplexed. She stuck her tongue out at him, and kept climbing, pleased with her escape. 

“Brienna!” 

She slipped her fingers into the next groove, mindful of the old bird nest that sheltered between the stones. Soft white down still stuck in the old twigs. 

“Brienna!” the voice came out as a shouted hiss. She glanced down at him again. She was nearly to the roof of the guards’ hall. Beneath her, the boy looked absurdly small. Even more like a baby, she thought. “You’re not supposed to climb. You’ll get in trouble.” 

“You lost the game,” she told him, smiling. 

“Only because you cheated!” 

“Only because you’re craven!” she shouted back. Her smile widened when she saw his pink face flush darker. The round eyes shrank to narrow slits of spite. Slowly, determinedly, the boy began stepping out of his boots. Brienna shrieked and started moving faster, listening to him climbing behind her. 

She scrambled up the side of Queen’s Keep until she was high enough to jump over to the roof of the guards’ hall. She took off her own boots and stockings then, tossing them over the side and listening as they made soft thuds in the grass and piles of old snow. Then she scrambled over the roof of the barracks, careful to tread lightly so that no one would hear her in the rooms beneath. She didn’t want to have men at arms chasing her across the roofs again. Brienna smiled at the memory. In all her eight years, that chase had been the most fun she’d ever had, immediately followed by the worst thrashing she’d ever received. Her bottom hurt just thinking about it. 

The sharp summer breeze caught her long skirt and tore at her hair, pulling the dark strands free from her braid. Brienna danced along, running on the balls of her feet. The armoury was up ahead. It was taller than the guards’ hall, she’d have to climb again. She glanced behind her to see if Wyll had made it to the roof yet. She didn’t want to get too far ahead of him, otherwise he might give up and then the game would be over. She needed to stay just close enough that he would keep up the chase. 

He hadn’t climbed high enough yet, so she stopped to rest. She looked out across sprawling grey Winterfell, watching its people scurry like the ants in the glass case in Maester Norris’ room. There were the laundresses hanging the bedding up behind the Great Keep. One was singing, the words hidden beneath the wind, though the melody carried, bouncing off the stone walls. A tall girl prodded a flock of geese through the yard. Every so often one would stop to pull at a tuft of grass and the goose girl would swat it with her long stick. Other children were catching frogs in the sea, which was what the castle children called the vast puddle that stretched alongside the inner wall. She watched as the cook's son threw his frog at a girl, who screamed and ran away as he laughed. Brienna laughed too. Not even she was afraid of frogs, and she was a  _ princess. _

She could hear Wyll scrambling behind her. When she turned, she saw him make the short leap from the side of Queen’s Keep onto the roof where she stood. He held his arms out at his sides even after he landed, as if he thought he was about to fall off. That was silly, Brienna knew. The guards hall was broad, the roof only slightly pitched. You’d have to be completely stupid to fall off. And for all his faults, Wyllfryd Manderly wasn’t  _ completely _ stupid. 

He edged toward her, round face still bright pink, his limp blond hair sticking to his forehead. He wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve. “Why do you always have to make everything so hard?” he demanded, puffing. 

Brienna rolled her eyes. “Stop being such a whiny baby.”

“I’m not being a whiny baby.” 

“Yes, you are.” 

“No, I’m not!” 

“Yes, you are.” 

She saw him set his jaw in that way of his. Then he crossed his arms and turned away from her, sitting down on the peak of the roof, sulking.

Brienna groaned. It looked like their game was over. She walked back to him, wanting to stomp her feet, but couldn’t or the men would hear her and come try to catch her. Or worse, tattle on her to her parents. 

She came over, her hands on her hips. “Are you going to stop playing?” she demanded, glaring down at him. “Because that would be a  _ very  _ baby thing to do. It’d mean that you  _ are  _ a baby. A big, fat, crying baby who just wants to go home to his—” Brienna was cut short when, as she drew up beside him, Wyll shot his hand out and grabbed her bare ankle. His blue-green eyes rose to look at her beneath long, colorless lashes. 

“Got you, Stark,” he whispered. 

Brienna’s mouth opened and closed. “That’s cheating,” she said. 

“Nuh-uh. I never said I was done playing.” 

Brienna’s shoulders slumped. She wanted to yell at him and maybe kick him a little. Maybe even push him off the roof and watch him fly. Instead, she just jerked her leg away and flounced down beside him, her own arms crossed angrily over her chest. She pointedly looked away from him, but she could still hear him laughing at her. He had a stupid laugh, she thought. It was like a baby’s gurgle. 

After awhile he stopped laughing. “Aw, don’t be mad,” he complained when Brienna still wouldn’t look at him. She didn’t answer, just narrowed her eyes, watching the flapping white sheets down in the yard. 

“You’re such a bad loser.”

She turned, not quite looking at him, and stuck out her tongue.

“Your mother says you aren’t supposed to do that.”

She did it again.

“You know, it’s treason to go against the queen’s orders. She could have your head chopped off.” 

“She wouldn’t.” 

“Maybe she would.”

Brienna rolled her eyes. 

They were quiet for a while. “It’s so high up here,” Wyll said. “I feel like I’m a bird.”

Brienna agreed. She had often come up here and pretended that she was a bird, it was one of her favorite games to play when she was alone. Once, she even brought up some twigs and grass and yarn and made a little nest and stuck it in between two of the stones in Queen’s Keep, though she hadn’t pushed it back far enough and the rain washed it away. 

“You can watch all the people from up here. One time I climbed up there,” she pointed over to the armoury and pitched voice lower in case someone was close enough to hear. “And I saw Elys kissing a girl in the godswood.”

All of her remaining ire melted away when she saw the look on his face. His mouth popped open and his round eyes went rounder. 

“You can’t tell him I saw!” 

“I won’t.” But the look on his face made her wonder how long he was going to sit on this information, waiting for the right moment to use it. Sometimes she wondered if Wyll wasn’t secretly evil. 

“Let’s go to the godswood,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I want to play come into my castle.” He started toward the edge of the roof. 

“Not that way,” Brienna said, also standing. She pointed toward the armoury. “Let’s pretend to be birds.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “Or dragons! I get to be the Black Death!” 

Wyll let out a short exclamation. “ _ I _ want to be the Black Death!” 

“That wouldn’t make any sense,” she told him for the hundredth time. “Drogon was black. I have black hair. Drogon was the biggest. I’m taller than you. Plus, I called him first. You have to be Viserion because you have whitish hair.” 

Wyll drew himself up as far as he could, seeming to measure himself against her. It couldn’t be helped. Despite being a whole year older and a boy to boot, Wyll stood a good two inches shorter than her. His shoulders sagged in defeat. “Can’t I at least be Rhaegal? My eyes are green.” He widened his blue-green eyes to show her. “And I’m not  _ that  _ much smaller than you.” 

Brienna wasn’t very convinced by this argument, but seeing as she still got to be the Black Death, she allowed it. 

Once this important decision was made, they took off, racing along the roof, arms held out to their sides, flapping like dragons. Brienna looked out over the yard and blew air out of her mouth, scorching the keeps and towers and storehouses with her fiery breath. They began climbing the walls of the armoury, their small feet and hands finding the divots and cracks in the stone until they were able to haul themselves up to the roof. Here they could look out into the entire yard. At one end were the stables and the smithy. Brienna could hear Gendry’s hammer pinging. Scaffoldings were braced up against the library tower, men climbing over them, steadily at work rebuilding it. The library tower had been destroyed years before she was born when Bolton's Bastard had come in and burned Winterfell to the ground. Except for Queen’s Keep, it was one of the last things to be rebuilt. 

“There’s Elys,” Wyll said, pointing down into the yard where a dozen men and boys were standing around, Brienna’s father and brothers among them. She noticed her step-brother Elys straight away by his bright auburn hair. Her brother Brandon stood beside him, his dark hair the same shade as her own. In the center of the ring stood her little brother Ned, wooden sword raised. Father was standing behind him, adjusting his stance, raising his arm, straightening his shoulders. Then he stepped back and gestured for another boy to come forward, the captain of the guard’s son, Jem. Both boys were swaddled in padding and swung their swords at each other as the circle of men shouted encouragement. Her father stood with his arms crossed, watching them go. 

There was movement from the far corner of the yard. Looking over, Brienna saw her mother approaching the group, her long grey cloak fluttering behind her, her auburn hair a spot of brightness in the dull courtyard. Behind her, close as her shadow, rose a huge woman in a blue cloak, her short blond hair pulled back severely from her scarred face, a sword strapped to her hip. The pair came toward the group of men and paused beside Brienna’s father. Many of the men didn’t notice Mother straight away, paying attention to the awkward movements of the little boys’ battle.

Father noticed though, and turned to speak to her, the scarred half of his face transforming when he smiled down at her. Sandor Clegane dwarfed his wife. He was built like a castle tower, tall and broad, the sword in his belt only slightly enhancing the menace of his size and scarred face. Mother looked almost childlike beside him, but she stood poised and beautiful, her posture perfect, her bearing regal. Just as a queen ought to look, Brienna thought. 

Now that her mother’s back was turned Brienna saw the woolen sling strapped to her back where a tiny head poked out beneath a rabbit skin cap. Brienna smiled. Ellyn Stark was only a few months old and Brienna loved her dearly. She’d begged the gods for a sister for as long as she could remember. And Ellyn even  _ looked  _ like her, Mother said so.

“We should go,” said Wyll. “Before your father sees us.” 

As if he’d heard him, her father stopped talking to Mother and glanced toward the armoury. Brienna and Wyll both ducked, but it was too late. He’d spotted them. 

Peeking up, Brienna saw that he’d stopped smiling. His face had gone very still and when he saw that she was looking at him, he slowly raised his finger and jabbed it at her.

Wyll moaned and put his face down on the roof tiles. Brienna could already feel her bottom starting to hurt. Slowly, the two miscreants crept backward over the armoury roof until they were out of sight. 

“Come on,” Brienna said, trying to sound like her tummy wasn’t quivering with fear. 

“He’s going to kill us,” Wyll moaned. “I told you not to climb.” 

“Shut up. You climbed too.” 

Brienna was thinking hard. She didn’t want to face her parents. Maybe she could hide somewhere? If they went to the kitchens maybe they could steal enough bread and live in a forgotten tower room until her father forgot that he’d seen them. 

The armoury roof jutted out over the wall of the godwood and a couple of the trees grew right up next to it. The huge sentinel tree had branches that swept over the roof, covering part of it. Trying to quell her fear, Brienna pushed into the branches, until she saw the trunk. Then she left the roof, swinging from branch to branch before shimmying down the rest of the trunk, her dress getting sticky with sap. She let go a few feet from the ground and landed with a muffled thump in the thick matter. A few moments later Wyll followed, falling on his rump. 

_ Maybe we can just live here in the godswood _ , thought Brienna.  _ We can be like the children of the forest. _ That sounded rather exciting. She told Wyll. 

He didn’t sound nearly as pleased at the idea. “What would we eat?” 

Brienna shrugged. “There are lots of animals in the godswood. Squirrels and rabbits and pigeons.” 

Wyll  _ hmmphed _ at that. “We’d have to catch them and get all the blood out and make a fire and cook them. And there would be nothing to season them with except dirt.” 

Brienna rolled her eyes. “My parents lived in the wild when they were coming back to Winterfell. It can’t be that hard.” 

“You father probably just scared all the little animals to death.” Wyll grumbled. 

Brienna glared at him. For reasons she’d never entirely figured out, Wyll was terrified of her father. Yes, sometimes Brienna was frightened of him too, but only when she was in trouble like now. But otherwise he wasn’t any scarier than other grown ups. Once she’d told Father that Wyll was scared of him. He’d just laughed and said “Good.” which had confused her even more. It was almost like he  _ wanted _ Wyll to be frightened of him. 

The pair wandered through the godswood for awhile, fearing to leave lest Sandor Clegane be waiting for them at the gates, switch in hand. Brienna began looking for good places to build a home in the godswood. There were several nice spots where the thick pine bows swung so low to the ground that nobody would be able to see them. They crawled under some, their clothes getting covered in needles and sap until they were inside a snug little space, thick limbs above them and to the sides, making walls and roof, the leaf matter beneath them soft and spongy. The little room smelled like pine and damp earth. 

“See, we could live here.” Brienna said. “It’s snug as your room in the castle, and you don’t have to share it with anyone but me.”

“Boys and girls aren’t supposed to share a room,” Wyll grumbled. He wasn’t being any fun at all. 

“Fine,” Brienna snapped. “I’ll find my own room over there,” she pointed to the wall of branches. There were surely other little spaces like this in the thick copse of pine trees. “And then our house will have two rooms.” 

“We still don’t have anything to eat.” 

“We’ll sneak out of the godswood tonight when everyone's asleep and find something in the kitchens.” 

Wyll looked like he was about to say something else when they heard rustling beside them. Both of the children looked to where it was coming from. A huge, dark shadow was lumbering toward them and for a terrible moment Brienna thought a bear was about to burst into their little home and eat them. From the sound he made, Wyll seemed to be thinking the same thing. 

Then a long grey snout thrust through the green pine needles right above their heads, followed by a massive grey head and thick, fur covered shoulders. Golden eyes stared down at Brienna. 

Brienna let out a shaky laugh. “Summer,” she whispered, smiling up at the huge grey direwolf. He continued to look at her. Then, without warning, the beast stepped toward her and gave her a lick on the cheek, his tongue hot and slimy. She shrieked and giggled, wiping away the slobber with her sleeve. 

Wyll gazed up at the direwolf with a look of awe and fascination. Though he’d lived at Winterfell for almost half a year, he still wasn't used to seeing the giant wolves that prowled about the place. Summer stared at him in return, seeming to evaluate this non-Stark child with eyes too knowing to be merely animal. Then he let out a whine and backed out of their hiding place. The two watched him go, only to see him reappear a moment later and whine again.This time he leaned down and nipped at the hem of Brienna’s dress, tugging on it a little before letting go and disappearing again. 

“He wants us to go with him.” Brienna said. 

Wyll didn’t question her. When she crawled out from underneath their hiding place, she could hear him following behind. 

Summer met them on the other side. Standing up, Brienna only reached the direwolf’s shoulder, Wyll not even that. Silently, he led them through the hidden trails of the godswood. 

Brienna had an idea of where they were headed. Sure enough, she soon saw steam curling in the air. Red leaves replaced the green above their heads. Summer led them around to the front of the heart tree, where a man was seated beneath it’s arching white limbs, his back toward the face carved into its trunk. 

Brienna had sometimes heard people call her mother the Red Wolf. She supposed it fit in its way, pairing the sigil of House Stark with the long, red hair that people so admired. But secretly Brienna had always thought that if anybody should be called the Red Wolf it was this man. He had a wiry build, with a long, thin face and eyes that could pierce any gloom, even the shadows of time. His hair fell around his shoulders, the same blood red as the weirwood's face _. _ Even seated on the ground, his useless legs folded beneath him, Bran Stark emanated power. He was called the Three Eyed Raven by the people of the North and revered by them as the mouthpiece of the old gods. People came from all over to speak with him here beneath the heart tree. Brienna had heard that years ago old Septon Cuthbert had denounced him, calling him a heathen and a dark wizard, an enemy of the seven true gods. Mother had sent the septon away for his own safety. 

But for all his being a great seer, to Brienna he was just Uncle Bran. He told the best stories, always listened to her grievances, and never yelled when she did naughty things like climbing up onto roofs. 

“In trouble again?” he asked when she came up beside him. He laughed at her downcast expression before patting the ground beside him. She sat down, crossing her legs beneath her. Wyll did the same on her other side. He stared at Bran in the same wondering awe that he had Summer. Every child in the North had heard of Brandon Stark, the boy who’d gone beyond the Wall and come back years later to help defeat the Night King. 

“What happened?” Uncle Bran asked. With a little help from Wyll, Brienna told him the whole story. Bran smiled when she talked about pretending to be a dragon and laughed outright when she said how her father had caught her climbing. Brienna frowned, not finding it particularly funny. 

“My father used to do the same thing,” Bran said. “My mother was worse though. She was so sure I’d fall and kill myself.” His smile turned wry. “She wasn’t wrong about the first part.”

“Father does the same thing,” Brienna said. “He’s always saying I’ll fall off the roof and then he’ll have to stick me out here with you.” She blushed after she said it, hearing how rude she sounded.

Bran just laughed again. “He’d have to send you out past the Wall first, I’m afraid.” his voice changed a little when he spoke next. “Your father has the right of it, though. It’s a miracle I survived at all. Afterwards, nobody was certain I would live. My mother stayed by my bedside for weeks, her heart broken into a thousand pieces. Your parents would be just the same if something happened to you. You should do as your father says and keep your feet on the ground.”

Brienna hung her head. She was sorry for it, truly. She didn’t want to break her parents hearts. But still . . . “Sometimes I just can’t help it,” she whispered. She looked up at him again, wondering if he would scold her for being disobedient. He just looked at her wistfully. 

“It’s like your own secret place, isn’t it?” he said. 

Brienna nodded. “Yes. Yes, that’s just it.” 

“What’s your favorite spot?”

Brienna’s eyebrows raised. “I like Queen’s Keep.” She smiled “I can sit next to one of the gargoyles and anybody who looked up would think I’m a gargoyle too.”

“Ah, yes,” said Bran. “I remember that. You can see the whole castle from there. They called it First Keep when I was a boy. That’s where I fell from, you know.” 

Brienna went very still but Bran kept talking, seeming lost in his memories. 

“Nobody’d lived there for centuries when that happened, and then Bolton’s Bastard turned it half to rubble. I saw it when it was first burned. One whole side had fallen away and gargoyles laying shattered on the ground. My ancestors' legacy, as crumpled and ruined as I’d been.” He turned to her with a knowing smile. “When Sansa’s done with it it’ll be the finest part of Winterfell. I’ve already told her I want a chamber there, with a solar for when winter comes.” He glanced up at the red leaves of the weirwood tree. “This is a sacred place, but I’d rather not have to sit here all day when the snows begin to fly.”

“I thought you Starks liked the cold,” a deep voice rasped. 

The children started, but Bran didn’t even blink. “Not that much, I’m afraid. I’ve had about enough of snow and ice for my lifetime.” He looked toward the voice. Brienna’s heart fell into her stomach and beside her Wyll made a sound of dread. Her father was stalking toward them, a smaller figure at his side. Meera Reed, carrying her three-pronged spear. Father was looking at Brienna and Wyll, his brow raised. 

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” he said. “I might’ve known.” He glanced at Bran. “They tell you what they’ve been doing? Though I suppose they didn’t have to.”

“My niece and I have been swapping stories about our adventures in Winterfell,” Bran said pleasantly. 

“You tell her what it’s like to be smashed against the ground?”

Brienna saw Meera tense, her long fingers gripping the frog spear. Bran didn’t seem to be bothered by the rude question. No doubt he was used to his brother-in-law’s forthrightness. 

“I hadn’t gotten that far, no.”

“Next time, then.” He was right in front of them now, his hands on his hips. He looked back and forth between the children before finally settling his gaze on Brienna. She squirmed and began fidgeting with her sleeve. Father sighed loudly through his nose and squatted down until they were closer to eye level. “What,” Father began, speaking very slowly. “Have I told you about climbing?”

Brienna stared at her sleeve. “Not to,” she whispered. 

“What?”

“Not to,” she said a little louder.

“So then why, in seven buggering hells, did I see you and young Wyllfryd here atop the armoury not one hour ago?”

Brienna wasn’t sure how to respond so she just shrugged, still fidgeting with her sleeve. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Wyll was staring at his boots.

Father sighed loudly again. “I should thrash the hides off both of you.”

Brienna flinched. 

“Stark,” Father snapped, making her flinch again. “Did your father ever punish you for climbing?” 

Brienna glanced up. Father was watching Uncle Bran, who just smiled a little. 

“Yes, several times. The last time he made me hold an all-night vigil in the godswood to contemplate my sins. The next morning they found me asleep on a tree branch thirty feet in the air.”

Father snorted. “Sounds about right.” He shook his head and muttered, “Holding vigil in the godswood. Only Eddard Stark.” He sighed loudly again. “Well, I suppose that counts out  _ noble _ approaches to punishment. But it seems like a good southron thrashing doesn’t work either. So,” he rasped, looking contemplative. “I guess this means I’m going to have to be creative. Come along.” He rose to his feet and strode off.

Wyll and Brienna scrambled after him, giving hurried goodbyes to the Three Eyed Raven and Meera. Bran bid them farewell, his eyes compassionate.

They had to run to keep up with Father’s long strides. By the time they reached the gates of the godwood Wyll was pink and puffing again and even Brienna was wheezing a little. “Need to start sending you two with the guards to drill,” Father said, listening to them. “Too little work and too many sweets. Well, that’s about to change.” He laughed, and to Brienna it sounded like dogs snarling. She gulped loudly.

They wandered across the yard, past where the boys were still drilling. Her brothers looked over at them. Brandon watched them as somberly as if Father was taking them out to be executed. Elys had no such grace. He grinned at them and pulled a face, making Ned laugh his high-pitched, girly laugh. Brienna glowered and jabbed her finger in their direction. 

“Stupid buggers,” she heard Wyll mutter under his breath.

“What did you say?” her father snapped. 

“Nothing, ser." 

“Don’t call me ser.” 

“Sorry s—erm, Sorry.”

They were making their way toward the kitchens, she noticed, the low, grey building looming ahead. For some reason she doubted they were going there for sweeties. Pigs squealed from behind the building, chickens wandered across the yard in front and drying racks full of herbs had been set out. People darted in and out of the low doorway, carrying things in their arms and aprons. They bowed their heads when they saw the three of them approaching. “Fitch here?” Father asked one of the maids outside the door. Brienna thought her name was Prissy. She nodded, her large brown eyes widening as he spoke to her.

“Good.” Father ducked into the dark kitchen, almost having to double over to get through the little doorway. 

Brienna had always liked the kitchens. There was a huge main room with six giant hearths and a dozen brick ovens built into the walls. It was always warm and smelled like bread and roasting meat. Right now only one hearth was lit, where a man was leaning over a massive cauldron, stirring it with his giant wooden spoon. Three women were kneading dough on a long wooden table, flour up to their elbows. A boy sat in the corner, plucking a goose, while in another room Brienna could see two teenage girls churning butter.

“Fitch,” Her father said, making everyone look up. They ducked their heads when they saw who the visitors were. 

“Clegane,” said the tall man with the spoon, coming toward them. Fitch was in his forties, his hair mostly grey, with strong arms and a belly that looked like he’d been working in a kitchen for thirty-five years. He had a broad, kindly face and always set aside little treats for the Stark children. He was Wyll’s favorite grown-up. 

He smiled as he came over to them. “What can I do for you all today?”

Father cleared his throat and glanced down at them. “I’m afraid I have a bit of a problem.”

“Oh?” Fitch asked, looking rather alarmed. 

“Mmm. You see, I have here two disobedient children in need of an occupation. A long, horrible occupation.” He looked back up at Fitch. “I’ve worked in kitchens before. Usually there’s some back room that hasn’t been properly scrubbed in years. You got one of those?” 

Fitch swayed a little on his heels. “Well, now, Clegane, I like to think Winterfell’s kitchens are the tidiest in Westeros.”

“So you only have one filthy scullery for every five at Casterly Rock?”

Fitch chuckled and looked a little abashed. “As you say.” 

“Well, here are some extra hands to help you with that.” He looked back at the children. “Drive them as hard as any of your people here. Have them clean top to bottom, every surface. You two,” he told them, looking back and forth between Brienna and Wyll. “If you wouldn’t lick the floor of that scullery, then it isn’t clean enough. And no sweets. No asking Fitch for sampling. If you’re thirsty you can have water.” He looked back at Fitch. “They can come back for dinner.”

Fitch nodded. After Father left, he looked at them appraisingly, hands on his hips. “Well, then,” he said. “I suppose I have something that’ll do.” 

  
  


The cellar was cavernous. The ceiling was low, but the space spread out in every direction. Brienna imagined that it was a giant’s coffin, the lid pressing down on them. 

There was the main store room where the cooks primarily kept huge barrels of pickled things, casks of wine, and pots and pans. Dried plants hung in long ropes from the ceiling and bags of flour lay in a mountain at one end of the room. In the smaller rooms off the main were giant wheels of cheese, crocks of butter and honey, strings of smoked meats, more preserves, empty barrels and crocks, and assortments of tools that Brienna didn’t know the use of. The only light was the lantern held above Fitch’s head, the flickering flame making the shadows run and duck and hide. It made the hair stand up on her arms. The entire place was cold and dry.  _ Just like the crypts _ , she thought.

“Here we are then,” Fitch said cheerily, not seeming to notice the oppressive atmosphere. He’d led them to the back of the cellar into a room full of  _ stuff _ . It looked as though everything that didn’t have an obvious home in the kitchen had been tossed in there for the last several centuries. Old pots and pans, a hundred various boxes, jars, vases, flower pots, rotten onions, a  _ bird cage _ . The stone floor of the entire cellar was rather dusty, with lots of old footprints winding about the place. But it was apparent that nobody had done more than a cursory sweep of this storeroom more than once a year for the last hundred. “Aye, it’s a pretty good mess isn’t it? Been like this since Stannis held Winterfell, and probably many years before that. Seems to me that the last several cooks weren’t the tidiest folks. We cleaned out the rest of the cellar when I first came here, and I have the maids come down and straighten up as often as I can spare them. But this old room, aye, I haven’t had the manpower to spare someone for several days just to clean it all out. Gods know  _ I  _ haven’t the time for it. Well, the brooms are upstairs with the buckets and scrub brushes. You’ll have to organize everything first, pull it all off the shelves and throw away what needs thrown away. If it don’t belong in the kitchen,” he eyed the rusted bird cage “take it out of here. Just put it up in the kitchen yard and I’ll go through it and tell you where it goes. Otherwise, just clean, clean, clean. Like the master-o-arms said, if you don’t wanna lick it, it ain’t clean enough. I’ll leave the lantern.” He set it on a shelf, making the shadows lurch. Then, with a sympathetic smile, he left them to their work. 

  
  
  
  


Sansa

The Great Hall was half filled when the queen arrived. The crowd stood upon her entrance and sank back down when she waved her hand, setting them at ease. These were Sansa’s people, and she smiled as she moved among them. There was Owin, the master of horse, blind in one eye with one shoulder noticeably lower than the other. Perwin and Dace, the kennel master's sons who played with her own boys in the godswood. Edwynn Snow, Quinn Karstarks’ squire, his bright blue eyes eerily similar to her own. Edmure Tully had left more in the North than his crest on the Wall of Men. 

Servants, men at arms, bannermen, they greeted her as she made her way toward the front. She spoke to them, high and low. Little Risa from the kitchen was heavy with her first child. She beamed when Sansa asked when she was due and smiled even wider when Sansa asked if she might feel the baby kick. Hullen Karstark bowed as she passed by, and coming near to her—too near for dear Brienne’s liking, Sansa felt the woman stiffen at her side—asked in a low voice whether he might speak to her in private on the morrow. Sansa agreed. She imagined that it had something to do with Merydith Cerwyn. She’d noticed how Karstark had been eyeing her young companion ever since he’d come to Winterfell four months earlier. He was quite a bit older than Merydith, it was true, but really, who was Sansa to judge about that?

It was almost ten more minutes before Sansa reached the high table at the head of the room. The servants were already placing the food on the trestle tables. In the time it’d taken for the Queen in the North to make it to her place, the hall had filled completely, men, women, dogs and direwolves packing into the hall. Everyone was in their places. Or, well, almost everyone.

“Where are the troublemakers?” she asked, taking her seat at the high table. Her brother Bran was seated to her right, his auburn hair glowing in the torchlight. He smiled a little, raising his cup to his lips. 

“Clegane went to fetch them.” 

Sansa smiled and shook her head. “Brienna is going to give that man a heart attack, I swear.”

“Is Brienna going to get spanked?” A small voice asked from across the table. Looking over, she saw little Ned smirking at her. 

Sansa raised her eyebrows at him. “It is not appropriate to take joy in other people’s misfortunes, Eddard Stark.”

A little ways down the table her eldest son Elys laughed loudly. He had a rich, contagious laugh.  _ Harry’s laugh. _ Sansa thought, with that familiar hint of old sadness. He leaned around Brandon so he could see Ned. “That means yes, Neddy,” he called. 

“Keep it up, young man, and you’ll be in line for a thrashing yourself.” With that, Sansa stood and raised her hands for silence. She said a short blessing over the food and the gathered people before seating herself again. The meal began, her family falling silent as they began devouring the basted goose, cranberries, hot bread with fresh butter and small beer. Sansa began eating as well, slowly, taking the opportunity to watch them all. In moments like these her life felt like a dream. There were times when she was certain that she was about to wake beneath the stairs in the Vale. An orphan. A bastard. A lost soul wandering the cold, white halls of a haunted castle. 

At other times  _ that _ felt like a dream. Surely she hadn't witnessed a golden child-king choke to death? Surely she hadn't seen a woman thrown from a door six-hundred feet in the air? Surely she hadn't cut off all her hair and traveled across a war-torn continent disguised as a brother of the faith? Surely she hadn't spent two whole years starving in the dark, no longer believing in the light of day? Surely  _ that  _ has been the dream, instead of this? 

There was something wonderful about watching growing boys eat. They ate with the reverent single-mindedness of one who had never eaten before and who might never eat again. There was Elys, her beautiful prince. He was a Hardyng, his mother a Stark, but he looked remarkably Tully, his wavy red hair a shade lighter than her own, his eyes the same bright blue, his skin pale and clear as fresh fallen snow. He was tall, and she imagined that within a couple years his shoulders would broaden. He reminded her very much of her brother Robb. His liveliness though, that he’d gotten from Harry. Sansa had already braced herself for the rumor of unexpected grandchildren from him. 

Brandon sat beside him. They were opposites in both temper and coloring. Brandon had traces of the Stark look, but it was very apparent who his father was. All of Sandor’s children looked like him. Even Ned, who’d gotten Sansa’s hair, had the same high cheekbones and strongly marked features. The dark hair and grey eyes overlapped in the Starks and Cleganes, so Brandon could have gotten those from either parent. His seriousness though, with that little furrow between his brows and the way he weighed his options before coming to any decision, he’d gotten those from her father. 

Little Ned was sweet, but mischievous, the result of being the younger brother of three very willful and domineering siblings. 

Ellyn was asleep in her nursery, and Sansa could only hope that she would grow to be best friends with the elder sister who had longed for her, and not her arch enemy as her own sister had been growing up.

The side door of the hall opened and Sansa watched the rest of her family come toward the table. Sandor led the way, his dark hair pulled back from his face. Behind him followed young Wyll Manderly, the grandson of old Wyman, the future Lord of White Harbor and future husband of the tall girl by his side. 

Sansa sighed and shook her head. Oh, Brienna. 

The trio came up to the high table, her daughter and Wyll taking their seats at the two empty places at the foot of the table while Sandor came to sit at her left hand. 

“How did it go?” she asked him as he sat down.

Sandor rolled his eyes as he reached to carve off a portion of goose. “The Mother save me from you Starks.” he grumbled. 

Sansa giggled. “That bad?” 

“No. They’re making headway in that cellar. I’ll give it to Fitch, I was afraid he’d give them some little task and let them go, but the man really let them have it. It’ll take at least three more days for them to get that midden heap shining.” 

Sansa shook her head. “I’m still not sure it’s proper to make a princess clean a root cellar.” 

Sandor scoffed. “Best thing that ever happened to a princess as far as I’m concerned. I’m telling you, if Cersei’d made Joff scrape the muck off a few flagstones, we might be living in a very different kind of world.” 

Sansa made a small sound of acknowledgement. “That might be true. But I’ve grown accustomed to this world. I don’t think I’d change it.” 

Sandor looked up from his dinner and glanced about the table. His gaze lingered on Brienna. Pieces of her dark hair had slipped from her braid, and there were smudges of dirt on her cheek and across the bridge of her nose. Sansa was amazed by how much she looked like Arya in that moment.

“Aye,” said Sandor, still looking at his daughter. Beneath the table, Sansa felt his hand come to rest on her knee. “Aye, this is a good world to be living in.”


End file.
